


The Steward and the Singer

by RadicallyBeige



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 00:28:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4939711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadicallyBeige/pseuds/RadicallyBeige
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘But if you would know, I am turning aside soon. I am going to have a long talk with Bombadil: such a talk as I have not had in all my time. He is a moss-gatherer, and I have been a stone doomed to rolling. But my rolling days are ending, and now we shall have much to say to one another.’</p><p>Gandalf has set aside his staff and his burdens, seeking out an old friend: Tom Bombadil. But events in Middle-Earth are still unfolding, and Gandalf must come face-to-face with defeat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Steward and the Singer

‘Good afternoon!’ the voice cried from behind the bushes. It carried an exuberance usually associated with the young, but it also offered the sympathy of experience. It bid the new arrival, an old man in a battered grey cloak, to wait, whilst it collected some water lilies. A few moments later, the voice called again from further away, wistful now. ‘I have missed you deeply, my old friend.’

The old man smiled to himself at the mention of afternoon. Words were always interesting, and he’d once amused himself by considering the meaning of the phrase ‘good morning’. Besides, his friend was right. It was late in the day for him to be visiting, and much time had passed since their last meeting. The tiredness that all but consumed him now had grown so much since their youth. Back then tiredness was just a feeling that came after a pleasurable walk. Now the tiredness filled his bones with a deep ache, and each movement took effort. Still, his mission was finally complete. Iarwain would be back soon with his lilies. Then they would chat and he could rest, and know the peace he had desired for years.

The grass around him was covered in moss. That amused the guest greatly, so greatly in fact, that he broke into a little chuckle, which soon turned into a full-blown laugh, reverberating around the forest. The air here was old, but old and wholesome, with a freshness that recalled the youth of the world. He could not taste the scent of machines, not even the mills and saws of the nearby Shire. The air was not still though, and carried on it a breeze which brought echos from miles away. The old man smiled at the world around him and lay down his staff. ‘No more need for this now’, he considered, ‘just the pleasure of a conversation with a very old friend.’

The voice reappeared. It had a lyrical quality to it: an innately musical structure, and any words that came were rich and full of life, offering a form of forgiveness for an immaterial past. ‘Where were we then Olórin - if that is still your name? Names and such like seem so important at the time, but then something else comes up. Speaking of such - these lilies - I must take care of them some more, or they shall be spoiled. And it would have been such a waste of an afternoon.’ He appeared in a manner that his guest could only think of as a trot, with his oversized yellow boots and hat swaying merrily as he himself moved forward. Olórin embraced his host with a smile and a hug, but before he could offer greetings his host spoke first.

‘It is good to see you old friend, but the lilies need some more care.’

The host’s bushy beard streamed behind him as he moved away again. Olórin found a nearby tree with a low hanging branch positioned perfectly for sitting, and took the opportunity to make himself more comfortable, closing his eyes.

When he came around from sleep, he saw his host sitting on the ground before him, treating with a young squirrel. Hearing the wizard stir, his host looked up, and bid his guest welcome to the house of Tom Bombadil. In reply, Olórin offered greetings and his favoured name in this age: Gandalf.

Iarwain laughed a laugh as deep as the age of the Earth. ‘Wand-Elf? You are no elf. And you carry no mere wand.’ He tossed his head back and laughed once more, with both joy and sorrow, marvelling at the nature of the world. ‘Wand-Elf. That makes me smile. You always make me smile Olórin.’

The old friends embraced, and went in search of dinner.

 

* * *

 

The next day brought with it a fine, fresh morning, and Gandalf and Tom strolled through the forest. All around them the birds sang, dancing through the air. Ahead, a fallow deer startled a young coney, and they both moved off in surprise. The sun broke through the trees, dappling the mossy grass, and drying the dew where it hit.

Gandalf had given Tom a brief synopsis of the last few years: Tom had shown a polite but cursory interest in the story, but was only only truly alert when Gandalf mentioned the Ents. Gandalf had raised the mystery of the missing Entwives, wondering if Tom had seen them recently.

Tom thought carefully, considering all the moments he had lived. He answered slowly: he had not met Fimbrethil since she was young, when they had danced in the forest of Tasarinan to the joy of the butterflies. Tom pondered how long had passed since then, and expressed hope for the return of such days.

Gandalf took a puff from his pipe. Those days were passed, and new days were dawning. The count of the years was long, and whilst the world still had a place for Tom, Gandalf was not sure how much longer that would remain so. Not knowing how to relate all this, he puffed out a smoke ring and chose to take Tom’s question as rhetorical. Tom didn’t seem to notice as he pondered Gandalf’s tale.

At that moment a great wind rose in the West, bringing with it the smell of the sea and news from distant lands. Then all around them the world grew silent. The birds ceased singing, and a stillness swept the forest. A tear dropped from Gandalf’s eye onto the soft ground below, mingling with the remnants of the morning’s dew. Gandalf slowly rocked backwards and forwards, unable to support his weight as realisation overcame him. As Tom held him close, Gandalf offered only a whisper to the air. ‘Curumo. Saruman.’

 

* * *

 

Over the next few days Tom rarely spoke with Gandalf, but not for want of trying. Nothing seemed able to rouse the wizard for long. Gandalf would sit around all day, smoking as often as not and barely eating meals. He kept a deep silence, with neither his voice nor his eyes offering conversation. Occasionally he would rise for a few moments, and mutter to himself some half-wish of different actions in bygone days, but always within moments he would return to his corner and his stupor. Tom remained close to Gandalf, seeing to his house, tidying the corners and clearing out the cobs. He didn’t begrudge his guest: such intolerance was not in his nature, and he offered what hospitality he could.

One fine morning found Tom and Gandalf sharing another silence after an attempted breakfast. A cup of well-brewed tea sat untouched on the table before the hunched wizard. It was a week since the wind from the West, and Gandalf looked overcome by age and weariness, brow-beaten by the world into submission. On the other side of the room sat his host, humming quietly to himself in his deep armchair. On the mantle, the clock chimed out midday, though neither occupant seemed to notice. Slowly, the wizard stirred to take a sip from the tea. After another pause Gandalf opened his mouth, speaking slowly but with a clarity of purpose.

‘I first met him when the world was young. He took a joy in the world, and was ambitious with its potential, caring deeply for its future. He never suffered fools gladly, but he was never unkind. The world was young, and we danced together. We didn’t always agree, but it did not matter, because we trusted each other’s essence. We laughed together in the light of the trees, and we wept together in the darkness.’’

Gandalf fell silent briefly. It seemed to Tom that Gandalf had spent the previous days revisiting these moments, and he was now sharing the burdens of a lifetime.

‘He volunteered when we returned once more to these shores. I don’t think he sought dominion. He just wanted to overthrow the evil of Sauron. To aid the eventual overthrow of Mairon, and protect the workings of the world. He always loved this world and what it could be. He offered to come and protect that,’ Gandalf quickly pressed on, explaining the actions of his friend. ‘And the Lords were happy to accept his sacrifice. He always had a deep mind, wise both to the ways of Arda and to the subtleties of its inhabitants. He was useful, and we all rejoiced in his acceptance of the task.’

‘And he excelled here in Middle-Earth. You should have seen how the Lords of Gondor received him. I was never so good with men. They doubted me, seeing only my warnings and not my silent offers of aid. They even took to calling me Stormcrow in Rohan. But Saruman - Saruman knew how to work with men. He did not take Orthanc for his own; it was given to him freely for his service by the Lords of Gondor. And rightly so.’

‘We were losing, and badly. Minas Ithil had fallen, and Osgiliath was overrun. And regardless of where we built our defences, the enemy was always one step ahead. Even when the West beat back his armies at the Field of Celebrant, still his power grew and ours waned. We were fighting a losing battle.’

Gandalf sighed, trying desperately to marshal his thoughts. Gandalf barely noticed his host now, carried away as he was by his own mind and the relaying of history. ‘Saruman cared. He built a great coalition to oppose Sauron. He worked with Elrond and the council, with Gondor and Rohan. He is as responsible for our victory as any other: we would not have won, then or now, but for his work building Gondor’s defences and protecting the heart of the West.’

‘We rallied and defended Middle-Earth, and fought the watchful peace. But at what cost? I marvelled after Celebrant at how our luck had changed, and I took it as a sign from The Lords of the West. But maybe not. Saruman had taken possession of Orthanc, and with it, its knowledge and content, not least the palantir of Fëanor. He delved deeply in books and lore, and used the accursed stone. With it he could see the enemy’s movements. With his work, our alliance stood a chance.’

‘Why did he not tell us what he was doing? This I have wondered again and again these last days. We could have shared the burden, and possibly protected each other from the costs. But maybe I am as naive as he always said. Galadriel and I would have rejected any use of the stone as too risky, and instead fought a losing battle. He did not give us this opportunity, caring as he did for the world. With Saruman’s use of the stone, we were able to hold our own. We drove the enemy from Dol Guldur.’

‘But at such cost. Sauron knew of Saruman, and bound Saruman to his will, with Saruman both knowing and unknowing what was happening. Saruman served Sauron, though he must have lied to himself that he was free, resisting Sauron for all of Middle-Earth, and then when he could face this lie no more, he would have come to believe that his cooperation with Sauron would stem and reduce the evil. We are stewards, Tom, stewards of all that lives and is. Saruman gave his very being to fight Sauron, til all that remained was a shell that Sauron was able to twist to his own evil purpose.’

The wizard stopped again, unsure how to go on, or what else to say. Tom leant forward, taking his arm and holding it, looking for the deep fire in Gandalf’s eyes, offering every sympathy and unnecessary absolution that the wizard could not bring himself to ask for.

The wizard sighed, and threw his eyes down, unable to bear the dreadful purity of his host’s gaze. ‘It’s so difficult Tom. Maybe I was wrong. In his corruption, I feared that he had come to hate me, viewing me as usurping his position on the council and his position with the Lords. I had already broken his staff, and rejected his power. If I had gone to him now, at the height of our victory, appearing as he should have, Saruman would have resisted me with every fibre of his being. His guilt and jealousy would have overpowered him: I would have been forced to destroy him utterly. Though it seems that that he has been vanquished anyway, his spirit damned to wander until the breaking of the void.’

The wizard lent forward once more, and whispered his final, failed plan. ‘I had hoped that there was one who might save him. One who had also failed, as he had, in accepting darkness, but who had made it through. I had hoped that Frodo would speak to his better angels, and Saruman would relinquish dominion and join us in victory. Alas that I was so wrong. My friend is destroyed, and I was not even with him at the end.’

Gandalf’s face was now more broken than ever. The light that had once shone clearly in his eyes was now nearly extinguished, and the red ring on his right hand grew dark and dim. Tears were streaming down his face. The wizard continued speaking, with little regard for how old and haggard he appeared. ‘Now I too have failed. At the height of my power, I could not even protect my friend. The mightiest of us has fallen and I could not stop it.’

‘I should have been there with him; did he repent at the end? Did he seek a path home? I should have been there for him: I could have interceded for him with the Lords. And now there is no chance, Tom: I have failed my friend. We have come through the night, but at what cost? No fruit shall ever be the same again.’ As Gandalf slumped backward, lost in the peril of his wandering thoughts and defeated by darkness, Tom stood quietly and left, mindful not to further disturb his guest. He had a decision to make.

 

* * *

 

Tom slowly wept to himself, alone in his private chamber. His friend was in need of assistance, but Tom was loathe to act. He’d built and preserved this corner of the world, and even in the dark days it had blossomed with hope. It was not yet time for Tom to venture forth and reveal himself, though he was aware of that day closing in, bringing both sweetness and sorrow. For now, he had simply sought to be, losing track of the passage of time and taking pleasure in creation as the friendly Tom Bombadil, giving kinship to all who would know him. Even Manwë and the others had not spotted the undercurrent of the deeper melody. They had offered only unknowing surprise when they first met Tom in Arda, considering him merely an odd artifact of creation: a simple being there from the beginning, as fatherless as the oldest mountains.

Tom wept slowly, knowing already the choice he would make, but still weighing the possibilities in his mind. Gandalf had passed the doors of death once already: without action, the despair of failure would engulf him entirely, and Tom knew that not even the joy of the West and victory could hold back the deep misery of a banished friend. But to offer the supposed sanctuary of the deeper mystery was no small thing. Gandalf had triumphed in the battle with Mairon, and deserved peace rather than the weary burden of knowledge. Did Tom have the right to merely replace one hardship with another? Yet Tom’s choice was no true choice: the wheels were set in motion from the beginning. At least there would be some time to enjoy before the next fight.

Tom dried the tears from his eyes, and sprung back to his feet. Gandalf awaited him.

Taking Gandalf’s hand again, Tom looked deep into the wizard’s eyes, striving to find the secret fire within. He began to sing an ancient melody, bursting with the life of the world in all its glory. Knowledge and peace came from his lips: into Gandalf’s heart he poured the essence of his spirit.

Gandalf’s eyes returned to life, the flame of Anor shining brightly within them. The great tiredness and despair had been lifted from him, and he knew both the peace and the passion of the ultimate mission. His eyes locked with the master of songs, and he bowed low, silently understanding. He did not question how or why: it was not his part to question, and enough had been revealed. Today was still important, and each moment was to be treasured, but a new age was coming, with a new hope. The world would be remade. And with that knowledge, Gandalf took on his next mission. He would begin in the West, but where his journey would end he knew not. He would make ready the ways and straighten the paths, with the voice of one crying in the wilderness.

 

* * *

 

_Author's note: I tend to edit works when I re-read them for flow, so whilst the content's meaning shall not change, the odd word, sentence or phrase will probably evolve over time.  
_


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